'Captain Fiffengurt,' said Mr Thyne, 'aren't you going to name it? You have that right, after all.'
'Don't call me captain,' growled Fiffengurt. 'The ixchel can't promote me, no matter what Taliktrum says.'
'The Trading Company, however, has named many a captain. And your qualifications-'
'Hang it all, man! It's not Company approval I'd go looking for, if I wanted to hold onto this job.'
Thyne sighed, gazing south over the carronades. 'Such a beautiful place. It just feels wrong to keep calling it the island.'
It was by general acclamation (and only because it was expected to save their lives) the most beautiful island in all the world. Not that they could see much of it: Bolutu warned of sandbars, so with five or six miles to go they had tacked westward, and were keeping a safe distance.
Even through the stronger telescopes, however, there was little to be seen. A meandering, sand-coloured smudge. No rocks, no human (or dlomic) structures. Low trees or bushes on dune-tops, possibly. That was all. The island was so flat and low to the horizon that the first men to see it confessed they had thought it a mirage.
But it was no mirage. And it was no tiny island, either, at least in length: the wall of dunes vanished west as far as any eye could discern. Bolutu had given them one name already: the Northern Sandwall, a two-thousand- mile-long barrier of offshore banks, entirely without rock or coral, torn and shaped and sifted by the Nelluroq. 'Within lies the great Gulf of Masal,' he said, 'almost a sea unto itself.'
'Gods of mercy!' Fiffengurt had exploded. 'You can't be saying we have another voyage to make, before we reach solid land?'
'I have no way to know that, from here,' said Bolutu. 'The coast is quite irregular. In places the Sandwall comes to within five miles of the mainland; in others it stands three hundred miles offshore. But it is solid enough, and quite broad in places. There are fishing villages, small forests, naval stations — and yes, fresh water. In other places the Sandwall is so thin one can throw a rock from the north beach into the Gulf of Masal.'
In such spots, he explained, the Nelluroq frequently punched inlets straight through the Sandwall. Entering the Gulf by one of these, a ship could make a safe landing on the Sandwall in any number of places, by following the channel-markers set by fishermen. 'Provided, of course, that we are in Bali Adro territory. That is likely, for most of the Gulf is claimed by our Empire. But I cannot know for certain without a landmark.'
'Are those inlets deep enough for a ship like the Chathrand?' Taliktrum had demanded, from his perch on Big Skip's shoulder.
'It depends, sir,' was Bolutu's reply.
'Depends, depends,' grumbled Fiffengurt. 'Everything blary depends.'
They had plenty of sea beneath them now: twenty fathoms, when the lead was cast. Fiffengurt called for topsails, on the masts that could take the strain. Time was against them: the men's spirits had lifted at the sight of land, but they were still half mad with thirst. And there would be no landing of any kind this side of the Sandwall. When the wind was right they could hear the breakers: a smashing, bellowing surf that would crush any vessel caught in its grip. They had no choice but to sail on.
Taliktrum ordered the release of the steerage passengers, a command Fiffengurt found it easy to obey. At first the forty pale, wasted souls had to be urged not to stand in the sun, losing moisture to sweat: Rose had kept them a long time in darkness, and some did not hide their glee to learn that he was now the one imprisoned. The sailors watched them, shamed by their filth, their long invisibility. But their hearts did not soften towards the crawly who had seized the ship.
Mid-afternoon the sea grew clearer, and they edged to within three miles of the Sandwall. Now there could be no doubt: the dunes were capped with trees. Smiles broke out on salt-crusted lips: trees meant water, fresh water; they could taste it already. But there was still no inlet, and no sign of home or village on the yellow shore.
When the sun touched the horizon, Fiffengurt cursed under his breath. 'Take us out five miles, Mr Elkstem, if you please. Mr Fegin, I want double lookouts forwards. We're going to hold this pace straight through to sunrise.'
A cold snap fell in the night, bringing down a teasing dew. Men tried to suck it from the rigging, only to end up with mouths full of salty tar. Others spent the night running their cracked fingers over sails and oilskins, then touching fingers to lips.
At daybreak the Sandwall stretched on as before. The heat grew and the wind diminished, and the Chathrand lost half her speed. Hope turned all at once to panic: there was almost nothing to drink. The boiled rum was gone. Captain Rose's salt-water still had twice exploded, and the repaired device produced only a trickle of fresh water. Tempers began to fray; even some of the ixchel exchanged rebellious glances; soon they would be thirsty too.
That night the wind picked up for several hours. At dawn, they found to their great dismay that the Sandwall had shrunk to a brown thread on the southern horizon: it had curved sharply away from them, and they spent the better part of the day creeping back towards it.
Outside sickbay the line grew long. Chadfallow and Fulbreech put drops of almond oil into blistered, leathery mouths. But there were serious maladies too. One man had a fever but was unable to sweat. Another had closed his eyes for a moment and found that they refused to open. A third complained of muscle spasms; they gave him linseed to rub on his arms. An hour later he lost his grip on a forestay and plummeted from the mainmast: his body sounded like a bundle of sticks when it struck the deck.
The third day along the Sandwall passed in a sort of group delirium. There were stormclouds to the north — forty or fifty miles to the north — but they failed to provide even shade, let alone moisture. There were whales to starboard, blowing froth into the air that looked like the mist over a waterfall in some forest glen.
In the evening water queue outside the galley, a Plapp's Pier sailor choked on his ration. His throat had become too dry to swallow; he coughed, and his precious quarter-cup sprayed against the wall. The Burnscove Boys laughed and hooted, and the sailor who had lost his water promptly lost his mind. He struck the nearest Burnscover hard in the jaw, and seconds later received the same treatment himself. Knives appeared, the Turachs shouted and charged the troublemakers, and the bulk of the men in line seized the chance to rush the water barrel. Mr Teggatz, swinging his ladle like a club, was knocked over; seconds later, so was the barrel. Few had even wet their lips, but four men lay bleeding underfoot. One, the unfortunate Plapp, died before his mates could carry him to sickbay.
That night Pazel went to visit his friends in the forecastle house, carrying a candle in a little glass. The window was grey with ash and salt scum. When he tapped, sullen faces glanced up through the smoky air. They had been prisoners for forty days, and had long since given up hope that a visitor might be bringing them their freedom. Even Neeps and Marila looked defeated, Pazel thought, as they tiptoed through the sprawled bodies to the window.
They expect to die, thought Pazel suddenly, and with the thought came a sharp bite of guilt. He was out here, free and relatively safe; Neeps and Marila and Chadfallow were locked in there with lunatics, nothing but a little fire between them and death. It was hard not to hate Taliktrum. The accusation still rang in his ears, however: if it was your family you'd have done exactly the same.
Pazel struggled not to show his anguish. His friends' eyes were red and crusty. Neeps' skin had paled to the colour of driftwood. Marila's thick black hair had lost its shine.
'No inlet yet,' Pazel managed to say. 'But it can't be far off now. Fiffengurt says we'll keep on till daybreak, just like yesterday.'
'Only slower,' said Marila.
Pazel nodded; they could not crack on at full speed in the dark. 'When…when was the last time-'
'We had anything to drink?' said Neeps, completing the question. 'Depends who you're talking about. Old Plapp and Burnscove, now, they just drank their fill. Blane-laced water, compliments of the ixchel. They gulped a quart apiece, and so did Saroo and Byrd and a few others. They'll sleep for ten days, and wake up drier than they started. Of course, by then-'
'Don't say it,' Marila interrupted.
She was right, Pazel thought: the situation was all too clear. Ten days from now they would either have found water or died for want of it.
'You should drink the blane-water too,' said Pazel. 'Go to sleep, and wake up with a nice, safe jug at your side.'
Neeps gave a half-glance over his shoulder, then shook his head. 'Not until they do, mate.'
Pazel looked: Sandor Ott was lounging against the wall, arms crossed. His chisel-point eyes were fixed on
